A New Addiction
by TragicSilence
Summary: House gradually adds a new addiction along with his Vicodin. Can anyone help him before it gets out of control? NOT A SLASH. HouseWilson strong friendship. No other pairing. A bit dark, but that's just how write.
1. Epilogue

The tourniquet settled against his pale, bare skin with a satisfying _snap. _Seconds later, a cotton ball was lightly but firmly pressed against the injection sight.

The syringe clattered and wavered slightly as it was strewn onto the small, cluttered coffe table. House lay backward on his couch, his head swimming slightly from the morphine snaking throughout his body.

The pain was receding now, his mind getting foggier.

Yes, he could feel the relief now. His leg felt **almost **non-existent, his line of thinking becoming less and less clear. His eyes fluttered slightly as the strong drug took control.

There was a faint noise in the background somewhere, almost inaudible to him. His eyes shut momentarily, but he managed to slowly open them again once he heard the distinct noise echo through his hazy mind once again.

Just before his eyes really closed, he thought he could make out a faint shadow of a figure standing before him, hands on its hips, mouth in a grim line.

Before darkness overtook him for the night, he muttered something incomprehensible, and the figure before him moved one of its hands to the back of its neck and said something House couldn't register. The only thing his mind could take in was simple and his stomach twisted in a knot as his eyes closed permanently for the night.

Busted. Wilson...


	2. Waking Up

He felt the pain spread through his body as the fiery tongues of hell itself were begging him to come join them. He had to arch his back slightly, closing his eyes as tight as they would go. He felt a scream coming on. He willed his eyes shut even more, shuddering as he released the scream silently. Nobody else needed to know of his inner torment. Nobody could know and truly understand what he was going through.

He collapsed back on the couch softly, listening to the calming notes of a Beethoven piece…one he's played since he was teenager. Even now, with the pain breaking through the ever-fading wall that morphine had built, his fingers twitched in the familiar chord progression. He frowned as he realized that it could just be twitching _because of the pain_, but what mattered?

His eyes closed again involuntarily. His frown increased when he realized that it wasn't _him_ that turned on his radio. Distant realizations hit him like a ton of bricks, and his eyes flew open, a harsh breath following it. He shouldn't have moved so soon. The pain started up again and he curled up, knees touching his chest, nails digging into his palms, leaving red crimson moons as reminders of the harsh reality of waking up…especially on his couch.

There was a sound somewhere which sounded far off to him; the sound of the radio halting. A hand touched his shoulder, not as gently and reassuringly as it should have. House moaned quietly, and lay back down on the couch again. Once the frayed muscles and damaged nerves calmed down enough for House to open his eyes ever so slightly, he did a quick scan of his surroundings.

Wilson was the second thing he noticed, after his chest holding the morphine, who was towering above him, looking royally pissed. House grumbled a useless, meaningless, halfhearted, and nearly inaudible apology.

That started Wilson up.

"Sorry?" he hissed in a harsh whisper. "You're _sorry? _House, what the hell were you _thinking_?"

Wilson was just pushing the pain level up. The morphine was wearing off. House leaned over on his right elbow painfully and searched for his Vicodin bottle, sitting innocently next to the morphine.

If looks could kill, House would be dead.

"Have you completely lost it?" Wilson practically shouted, snatching the Vicodin bottle out of House's clammy hands.

House groaned and plopped back down onto the couch. His body shook as the morphine made its last effect, and ebbed away. "'Giff me 'dat." House murmured, slowly slipping back into unconsciousness.

"Not a chance!" Wilson said amazed. "Go the fuck to sleep; we're talking when you can put three words together."

House watched through half opened eyes as Wilson stalked away, grumbling.

Then, the darkness came again, and House welcomed it.


	3. High

I'm so happy with the positive feedback I've been getting! Thanks so much guys. I wrote this chapter up quickly, in the midst of inspiration. It's not really as descriptive as the others, and I apologize for that, but I just wanted to get this in here before I have to go to soccer. Well… Thanks again. The beginning in this chapter, I guess I was just trying to get the jist of what happened down. Towards the middle/end I explain a little better I guess. I have to post this chapter because I edited this about 10 times and if I don't post it now I don't think I ever will be satisfied and actually do it.

* * *

He couldn't open his eyes. He _wouldn't. _He knew if he moved one muscle in his aching body, without Vicodin or freshly injected morphine… the couch does wonders for him. His head was pounding and still swimming from the high of the morphine, his breathing ragged, sweating profusely, his heart racing, his leg...there weren't enough words in the human language to describe how his leg felt. 

Deciding that he lay there long enough, he tried to open his eyes. The light was blinding and he shut them as quickly as they had opened. He curled up on his left side, cradling his head, eyes squeezed shut. Agony, that was the word to describe how he felt. Pure and utter agony. A faint groan escaped his tightly pursed lips. Where was the morphine wave? God fucking damn he needed his Vicodin.

He saw the light dim from behind his eyelids. Someone closed the blinds.

It all rushed back now. Wilson…waking up…pissed. Then the present morphine reached his mind again and he spaced out. He thought in fragments; like waves, thoughts came to him while the bittersweet morphine was in his system. Ebbing in and out, splashing in and slowly receding until it became just a distant memory.

He opened his eyes to a dimmer house. This...he could _tolerate. _It took him a moment to realize where he was again. A cloak of hazy morphine washed over him, and pain faded away for the moment. A faint and crooked smile worked its way onto his fatigued face.

Something moved near him; he heard it. He tried to sit up, but the morphine's affects were wearing off. He needed his Vicodin. Or more morphine. His eyes were able to focus and register what was on the coffee table. Or rather, what _wasn't. _The two delicious drugs weren't there. Just his cane sat, leaning against the dark oak, feebly. He gritted his teeth. Another wave splashed over him, and he relaxed his heavy shoulders.

This wave seemed to last longer than the others. That's how it worked for him once the morphine began to wear off. The last of it would come and go, until it didn't return. That's when it was time for another dose.

But it wasn't on the table. What the hell? Where did it…

Wilson. He remembered for a moment, but then his mind went hazy again and his thought was swept away with the morphine's buzz.

Finally, the creature that was causing the racket showed himself.

And boy did it looked _pissed._

Legs spread slightly, hands on hips, lips pursed in a thin white line, and anger, which House could usually read, was ever present in his eyes.

House couldn't focus enough to see it though, so he smiled when he saw Wilson.

"Jimmy m' boy. How are you?" The words came out raspy and hoarse and slurred and it just angered Wilson more. House's vision swirled and morphed around him, colors blending into one collage. _He really was riding the high._

"How am I?" Wilson repeated, completely awed. "You've finally lost it haven't you?"

"What?" House asked, enjoying the current buzz he was experiencing. He would savor the last moment until he needed another dose, or his doubled daily Vicodin intake.

"Morphine, House? _Morphine? _Since when the hell did the pain get so bad you needed to shoot up morphine?" Wilson couldn't hold it in any longer. The anger, the fear, the worry. In the long time he had known House, he _has_ done stupid things. Nothing this stupid, though.

He remembered the time when he came to check up on House a few months after the infarction. He remembered seeing House swaying on the couch, an empty bottle of Vicodin curled in his sweaty fingers. He remembered how he had to be the one to personally drive House to Princeton General to have his stomach pumped before the dumb ass killed himself. House claimed he just lost track… but Wilson knew House well enough to know that was complete bullshit. How does a brilliant doctor lost count and swallow a _whole bottle?_

He remembered one frantic night when he got to House's apartment and it was empty. He remembered the knot wrenching in his stomach as he drove bar to bar looking for him. He remembered having to literally drag House's drunk ass body out of the bar because he had gotten so wasted he couldn't walk or see or anything.

He remembered when House had lost a patient, how screwed up House had been acting. He had to give a boy wonder talk that House claimed had initially no effect on him, and the psycho babble shit should be saved for a dying cancer patient, but Wilson knew it worked because House was at his office later asking if Wilson was ready to buy him lunch. And when his leg had gotten so bad he asked Cuddy for morphine. He thought it was insane then, and he was shocked and disappointed and so many other things when Cuddy told him. He remembered feeling guilty when he realized he was glad that Cuddy deceived him and gave him a placebo. He remembered talking to Cuddy for hours about what could have made his leg become that horrible; his mind. He remembered all the lows House had been through.

He just couldn't register why House would resort to this now. Had the pain gotten that bad? Was the Vicodin finally losing its effect? How long had he been doing this?

-------------------------

People never saw what Wilson got out of their friendship. It was all one sided to watching eyes. No one could see deep down what the benefit of House and Wilson as friends came to be to Wilson. What useless sidelined spectators saw was a grouchy old cripple who mooched off of the young, handsome doctor. No one saw what Wilson received. To them, Wilson was House's scotch tape, and nothing more. All he did was hold House together before all of the pieces broke and clattered. They only knew how it was Wilson who saved House years ago after over dosing (this was an 'untrue' rumor.)

Their friendship to the glancing eye was nothing. Wilson was just there to help House, through the infarction, when Stacy left, when he overdosed, when he went through his detox, when he needed a refill, when House got to drunk to move or do anything rationally (when did House ever do _anything _rationally?) Wilson had to drag him home. That's all they saw.

What they didn't see was what House gave Wilson in return. That sense of security House gave him. The way House understood every aspect of whatever Wilson went though; whether he lost a patient, had troubles at home...whatever the reason, House was there…always. He may have never helped in words, but no one knew what he actually did to help Wilson. That House was actually the reason Wilson didn't just jump off a bridge one day. Wilson himself wasn't even sure if it was guilt or neediness or that passive feeling that if he left House…he shuddered whenever he thought of it. And sadly, he'd thought of what would happen to House if Wilson were to ever leave often. But Wilson would never leave. And he wasn't sure if it was that he was selfish or that he took pity upon House or if he just loved the guy so damn much, but he was _never _going to leave.

No one knew about the time Wilson had lost two patients at the hospital, a thirteen year old girl with leukemia, and a thirty-two year old father of two who had cancer in his lungs…on top of that, Mrs. Wilson number two was gone. No one knew Wilson had went to the bar and drank what seemed like enough alcohol to shock his liver for good. That Wilson had passed out, right there, in his barstool. That the bartender had to reach into Dr. James Wilson's pocket and retrieve his cell phone and call number one on his speed dial. That House had left in the middle of a passionate evening with Stacy just to go get his sorry ass. That he had taken Wilson home and had thrown him on his couch and spent half the night cleaning up Wilson's vomit and supporting his swaying body as he made his way to the bathroom and back.

And now this was happening. He looked at it as just another test of their friendship; proving how strong they could be. Like pillars to a building. One without the other would never stand, would never be.

------------------------------

House was experiencing another burst of the morphine's blessing, so he wasn't really able to answer correctly. He did feel inferior though, laying down while Wilson was fully able and pacing before him.

He muttered complete gibberish as he reached for his cane.

His hand grasped the cool handle, swung his left leg over the end of the couch, and gingerly moved his right leg over in suit.

Wilson wasn't quick enough to keep him down, so House was swaggering on his feet in an instant.

He took one drug-induced step in Wilson's general direction, but he still had a bit too much morphine in his system to be up and about. He titled to the right slightly, and swayed a bit before his head hid the floor with a sickening crash. His leg folded underneath him, and all of his thoughts were blanked out, everything in him dead. He knew no more. The pain was unbearable. And he meant it. No human should have to go through this. Was this God's way of punishing him for being a selfish prick? He couldn't breathe. He choked in breathes in short, ragged hiccups and squeezed his eyes shut. He rolled onto his back, his head pounding, his leg overtaking his mind. The pain…he couldn't think. He knew no more.

Wilson was crouched beside him in an instant. He grasped House under his armpits and was able to get House to his feet with a few mumbled protests and groans and sharp cried expressing nothing of how he truly felt. He pushed House to the couch a bit too hard, and House fell against the cushions, his head lolling backward.

He really _was _riding the high. He forgot everything that happened, nothing but the soft material of the couch rubbing against him and the morphine attacking the pain lingered in his screwed up mind.

It was pounding harder than it ever pounded, a white veil crossing his eyes as the pain increased. He smiled a crooked smile as his head hit the back of the couch. _More morphine and his Vicodin. Give him that and he's set for life._

Wilson watched in complete disbelief as House sat on the couch, grinning like a schoolgirl, right hand twitching, glazed eyes staring at Wilson, but not actually _at Wilson._

Wilson was in complete awe. "You're _high? _House, you didn't just take this for the pain? You're _fucking high?_" His voice rose with each syllable.

House put his index finger against his dry, cracked lips, his other hand strewn atop his head.

"No, I've been quiet long enough House! I've noticed you acting differently, and I've let it go long enough! You're shooting up fucking morphine now? How long has this been going on House? If the pain was getting worse, I would be a little more sympathetic about it, but you're doing it to get fucking _high!"_

House groaned. "I don't have time for this Wilson…I need to get to work..." Wilson never understood this, but no matter how off House was at times, the man could always talk, always use his mind, even if it was in the smallest of ways.

"God, you're really out of it! You actually think I'm going to let you go to work high on morphine! You could kill someone you know!" Wilson shook his head in utter disbelief.

"No one needs to know…" House muttered.

"I have to tell Cuddy…" Wilson didn't want to; he _had _to.

"No you don't!" House tried to shout, his voice slurring slightly. "No you don't…" House said, voice wavering with exhaustion and pain. "You _won't._ Why are you here anyway?" The buzz was fading slightly now…thanks to the Boy Wonder.

"House, I _have _to tell her, as much as I know you don't want her to know. You're going to end up coming to work one day, high off morphine, and killing someone. I'm telling her; for professional and personal reasons. She's your friend. And for your second damn question, I came to get my damn DVD player you never gave back! It's a good thing I came too! How much morphine did you take? And I swear to God House, if you mixed in any Vicodin with it…"

"Wilson, can we deal with this at a more reasonable hour?" House asked, half paying attention. His leg hurt badly. His eyelids were falling with fatigue. His head was pounding, and every muscle in his body quivered…he didn't need this now. He didn't need Wilson. He needed more morphine, more Vicodin. That's what he needed. He needed to go to work to get away from the house. To get away from everything.

"You didn't answer _my _questions." Wilson snapped.

"Go home. You don't need to be here…I don't need you here. I'm _fine._" An exasperatedly tired House said.

"Oh, that's rich. House…you're that damn high? Think I'm just going to get up and leave?"

"No…" he murmured, Wilson still a blur of color before his dilated eyes. "Just too hopeful…I'm fine Wilson. I'm serious." House found it hard to believe that even though he was as doped up as could be, he wasn't slurring as much as he did every night last week. He figured it was time to up his dose by a mg. or something.

"So am I!" he shouted. The words echoed through House's mind, swerving in and out, the words morphing and twisting. It was some what amusing to him, the way Wilson looked and sounded in his current state, and he smiled.

"What the hell is so funny?" He snapped.

"You…you're funny…"

"I'm calling Cuddy right now. I'm telling her we're not coming to work. I have to explain you did something totally fucking stupid and I have to be here to make sure you don't kill yourself." He took a step closer to House and held his hand up threateningly. "I don't want to have to tell her House, but she's your boss and friend and she cares and I feel she deserves to know. You…don't move a finger, you got that?"

House shrugged off the younger man's words. "Can I at least have my Vicodin?" he asked pathetically.

Wilson barked a bitter, sour laugh and shook his head. He walked over to the telephone, lifted it off the receiver, and dialed Cuddy's office number.

"Dr. Cuddy." She greeted, voice oozing with trained professionalism.

"Cuddy, it's…it's Wilson…"he answered, unsure if now was the time or place to tell her.

"What is it?" she asked. Dr. James Wilson was not a man to stutter unless there was _something, anything _wrong.

"I'm uh, at House's." He paused. "I…We can't come into work today." He finished.

"And why not?" she asked.

"House did...uh…something stupid." He couldn't tell her over the phone. This was serious. The moron was shooting up morphine, for God's sake.

"Is he alright?" she asked, worry evident in her voice.

"He'll…be fine. I'll talk to you about it tomorrow. I would come in, but I got to make sure he doesn't kill himself." He said it as a joke; it was sad that he was serious. Not that House was suicidal, no. He didn't think that for a minute. (Well, he hoped he knew.) Just the fact that he did it in the first place, that he had it with him to begin with. He couldn't quite put his finger in it, but his House's-only-friend instincts were kicking in and telling him that is wasn't safe to leave him alone. He was high, he fell, his leg probably hurt even with the morphine. Suicidal? No. Desperate? Yes.

Cuddy sucked in a lung-full of air. Those words stung her, somewhere deep down. "Sure, sure…take care of him. Call me if you need anything. And I mean _anything. _I want to see you in my office first thing tomorrow, Dr. Wilson."

"You got it, see you tomorrow Dr. Cuddy."

They hung up.

Wilson looked over at his friend, who was staring at the table unfocused. He sighed and made his way over to the couch.

------------------------------------------------

Cuddy sat at her desk, every muscle in her body tense and quivering. House did something stupid. Stupid enough for the infamous Dr. Wilson to actually stay_ home _from work. Wilson had only taken three sick days during his whole employment at PPTH. Two of the times being for House (and the reasons for those to sick days Cuddy knew- it just added onto her sack of worry) and once when he had shingles and was completely incapable of walking and doing his job. Even then he had two doctors in for him, calling him every hour to check up on things. '_Whether I'm asleep or not." _He had said.

Cuddy inhaled deeply to try and clear her racing mind, and opened the file atop her desk.

She read the first line half a dozen times and decided it was a futile attempt; she couldn't focus.

She turned her chair in the direction of the window and watched the breeze swish and sway at the falling leaves.

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House was still sitting there when Wilson placed the receiver back onto the cradle. He walked over and sat next to his friend, all of the anger faded. The one thing he could remember was that whenever House screwed himself over, Wilson had always been there, because no matter what House said, he _needed_ Wilson there.

Will all of the anger replaced with bitter memories and tainted remorse, Wilson put his hand on House's shoulder.

"How bad is it House?" he asked softly, warm brown eyes mixing with dilated, glazed blue ones. "How long has this been going on?"

House swayed slightly, trying to register why there was a hand on his shoulder and what it was Wilson just asked.

"I'm fine." He said, swatting Wilson's hand away and trying to stand again.

"Sit down House; you're in no condition to stand. You're going to fall and hurt yourself again."

House pushed Wilson off of him with half of his remaining strength and stood. He wavered slightly, leaning strong on his cane, the walls spinning, colors blurring into one depressing picture of his surroundings, head floating high, legs shaking.

He regained control of his hazy mind and slowly hobbled back towards his bedroom, ignoring Wilson's protests of standing.

"I'm going to bed." He said halfheartedly. He stumbled and swayed and bumped into things and staggered and stopped for breaks on the ten foot walk to his bedroom door.

"We need to talk about this…" Wilson attempted to call after House.

House ignored him completely and continued staggering towards his destination. Maybe he couldn't hear nor understand him, maybe he didn't want to, but he kept his unsteady gait until Wilson heard the door shut quietly and the distinct sound of a lock clicking closed, a sound no one would have heard except Wilson's expertly trained ear.

He sighed and walked over to the window, watching the wind press against the leaves, flapping and fluttering them this way and that. The really strong leaves stayed attached to the old tree, but a few weak old crumbling leaves dropped to the floor, waiting to be crunched by unknowing pedestrian feet.

Wilson sighed and turned away from the window, and stared at the deathly quiet door to House's bedroom. It was almost as if he were waiting for his friend to come out of there, completely sober and carrying a video game and they would sit and laugh and eat take out and pizza and drink beer and House would kick Wilson's butt and occasionally let Wilson win in whatever barbaric game they decided to play that day. Unbeknownst to House, Wilson knew that he let him win from time to time when Wilson was feeling inferior, constantly loosing.

It was then that Wilson noticed they haven't done any of this in _over a month._


	4. Getting there

Wilson never liked waking up on House's couch, other than the fact that he knew House was okay if he was there to make sure of it. That was the only good think of opening your eyes and seeing that cluttered, messy coffee table, the back of the rough couch, or the dim ceiling. His back always ached, his neck always had this indescribable tight feeling, and he never actually _slept_ for very long on the lumpy hunk of furniture.

So when he woke up and looked at the clock and realized he would have to be up in thirty minutes anyway, he sat up and picked up a magazine that was strewn carelessly under the coffee table.

He idly flipped through the pages, occasionally glancing at the door, waiting for House to wake up.

Wilson had this sneaking suspicion that he would have to wake House up manually anyway. Morphine didn't exactly make you sleep deprived. Especially with the amount House must have taken.

Seconds turned to minutes as he read the magazine (more like stared at the clock and House's bedroom door holding a magazine.)

Just as the digital numbers shifted to six thirty five, as time wasted away another minute, Wilson stood and walked over to House's bedroom. His feet padding against the hardwood and House's slight snoring were all that could be heard in the apartment. As Wilson knew, only his ear could hear these little things he had listened out for so many times in the past. The locking of his door, his snoring, that special way he would suck in a breath that indicated he was in pain, that limp he always got when he was in more pain than usual, that slightly-off way he talked when he had one two many Vicodin that no one would notice, except him. And that's what angered Wilson the most. That he knew so many of House's warning signals, and only now that he found out House had a problem, he noticed the changes in the way he'd been acting towards everyone. He was mad because he should have been able to tell, help him before he resorted to _this._ He was so mad. How was he not able to tell?

More isolated (if that was possible) No one could tell if Gregory House was just being himself or if he was going out of his way to avoid people. Now that Wilson thought about it, House really _had _been avoiding him more than usual. And that angered him the most. He was supposed to be there to watch out for House, and if he let himself slip on the slightest things…the more and more he thought about it, the more he noticed the changes.

Loss in appetite. House and Wilson had lunch everyday at work. So why was it that House had been ditching Wilson for the past week because _he had work to do?_ And why was it that their weekly Chinese food and pizza and chips and beer were delayed because _he was tired from his latest case. Or because he had to work late. _'He probably just slept in his office to avoid me, avoid our routine, get as far away from life as he could…' Wilson thought wryly.

And after looking at him yesterday when he was passed out on the couch…he was skin and bones. Wilson hadn't picked it up before… but thinking over it…it frightened him; what House was doing to himself. He was probably unaware himself. Or aware and just didn't care. Most likely the latter, Wilson thought.

And he really _did _go out of his way to not talk to anyone now. He didn't even share the usual banter with him and Cuddy anymore. And Wilson stopped dead in his tracks when he realized that House had actually done his clinic duty this week just so he wasn't talked to or confronted in the slightest way possible. Wilson suddenly felt like he could cry. Not a sad cry, but a cry of desperation. Wilson decided he was selfish. He wanted to cry because he knew, he _knew _he couldn't get through this alone, couldn't help House on his own this time. He needed someone else that could help him.

Wilson mentally smacked himself and put his hand on the bedroom door…

It was locked.

He groaned and called House's name through the door.

The faint snoring persisted.

Wilson knocked lightly and called House's name louder.

A small grunt erupted from the light snores, but then his breathing pattern returned to normal. (Again, something only Wilson would notice…)

He balled his hand into a fist and pounded into the door, calling his name in suit.

The snoring stopped and a grunt was heard from inside the sanctuary.

It was working, one or two more knocks…

He pounded again.

A shuffle was heard, a groan/moan of agitation and pain (probably when he was getting up,) a rattle of pills (secret stash? Had to be. Wilson took the others away. That just freaked him out a bit more. He had Vicodin lying in his room) and House opened the door.

The sight that greeted him just pissed him off more. Wilson was grinning (a very fake looking grin, mind you) when he opened the door.

"We have to go to work…" Wilson said while nonchalantly scratching his head.

House simply half-nodded and pushed past Wilson and into the bathroom. Wilson stood by the door and held his breath, hoping that there wasn't another vial in there or something.

"Get away from the door Wilson." He deadpanned from inside.

Wilson simply shrugged and scattered away from the door. Looking at his clothes that had substituted as pajamas for the night, he was suddenly blissfully happy he had a change of clothes in his office.

* * *

Getting dressed was a painful hassle. All the damn morphine was gone, and the Vicodin wasn't working nearly as good as it used to. It barely took the edge off, just making the edges of his mind fuzzy, not the whole. 

The faded jeans slid on no where near comfortably. He sat on the edge of his bed and slipped his left pant leg on with a practiced ease and familiarity. His right leg was the problem. He dropped his pants for the moment and lifted his right leg up gingerly. He slid it in carefully and groaned and cringed and stopped and popped a Vicodin and cursed and pulled at his hair and created new crimson moons in his palm, all trying to put his damn right pant leg on. About half way up, near the thigh, something went wrong and he was on his left side on his bed in an instant. After about five minutes of biting his lip to keep from screaming, he managed to finish the job. He stood up on his left leg, his right leg floating beside it, and buttoned them. He hopped over to the closet and pulled out his Rolling Stones tee shirt and slipped that on while swaying slightly from standing on one leg.

He popped another Vicodin, grabbed his cane, and headed out.

* * *

After Wilson ate a quick bowl of cereal and House just poked and prodded and ended up throwing his whole bowl away, they were out the door and on their way to the hospital. 

The ride was conveyed in an awkward silence, not one word shared between the two men. Wilson's throat was tight, his chest constricted. He wanted to know what was going through House's mind…he wanted to be able to hide House from all of the shit he dealt with each day.

House's mind raced. He thought about everything, just staring out the windshield, head resting against the back of the car's seat. He was cold. He was hurting. He was tired. He was craving his Vicodin. The spare bottle he held captive in his desk at work never seemed further away at the moment, and the one in the breast pocket in his jacket felt inconspicuously light.

His arm stung. He must have inserted the needle too harshly.

He must have been swimming deeper in his thoughts than he thought because it seemed like just after they had left his apartment, they were suddenly staring at the ugly doors of his hell, his impending doom; PPTH.

He sighed and stepped out of the car with a wince.

House walked fast, trying to stay ahead of Wilson.

To get to his office alone, to get to his extra bottle of Vicodin.

Wilson called something from behind him, but House didn't care.

"Fuck off…" he muttered to himself while limping faster than ever towards the elevator doors.


	5. Love

Cuddy couldn't sleep that whole night. House was her friend, House did something stupid…House always does this to her. He always does something that keeps her up for nights at a time until she's sure he's okay. During the detox, she slept a total of ten hours that whole week. Now he did something else for her to shove the pillow over her head and only attempt to sleep.

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She didn't sleep that whole night, which was why she was grateful when she heard Wilson's voice that morning.

"Uh, Dr. Cuddy, you said you wanted to see me?" Wilson asked timidly from the door.

"Oh, yes, yes, come in." She smiled.

Wilson walked in and sat into the comfy little chair she had set up. A knot wrenched in his stomach.

Lisa Cuddy was not a woman to beat around the bush. "What'd House do?" she asked straightforward.

Wilson fiddled his fingers together; he slightly resembled a little boy sitting in the principal's office, awaiting his fate after doing something bad. But it wasn't him that did the bad thing. _But I did, I did do something bad, I couldn't help him, stop him_, he thought.

"I, uh, I, well…I went to his house yesterday to get my DVD player, and uh, when I got there, he was on his couch…he had a chest with uh, vials of morphine and syringes and stuff. I think he's been taking it regularly." He managed to spit out.

Wilson hated the fact that Cuddy was almost as good as House at keeping her face expressionless. Her face was stone, staring at him, not a single word could be read from the lines etched in her face, nothing in her eyes. A stone.

Inside, Cuddy wore a part of her just died.

"Do you know how much he's been taking?" She asked, voice unwavering.

He shifted in his chair, and for once, he wasn't sure how to respond.

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House closed all of the blinds surrounding the thick glass walls of his office, dimmed the lights, locked his door, and sat. His leg raged in inferno, merciless, overtaking. His body trembled and shook, tremors making their way through his leg, then through the rest of his aching muscles. The bottle, there it was. He opened it and eagerly shook out two pills. They made their way into his body in an instant. He sat there for a few moments. Not enough. He pulled out the filled syringe that lay hidden in the bottom of his drawer. He stared at it, the devil's juice, oh so satisfying, but killing him in the least. House always hated opposing forces that fused. Never made any sense.

He stared at the syringe, fiddling it in his fingers, and thought.

About the only thing he could. The only thing he had.

This love – this love that watched Wilson when Wilson wasn't looking, making sure he was okay, sensing the unspoken, mending the broken, fitting like the puzzle pieces they had put together when House had been in the hospital for his leg. Who would watch over Wilson if it wasn't for him? Who would let him stay overnight when he had a bad fallout with his wife? Who would throw Christmas candy at him? Who would make him smile? Who would fight with him over feelings and well being if it wasn't for _him_?

House didn't know.

But at the same time, he knew he was setting Wilson free by staying away, pushing him away, hiding himself, doing this to himself. No more sarcasm. No more insults. No more shunning. No more rejection. No more fights. No more hurting Wilson without any reason. No more disappointing him. No more feigned apathy or ingratitude. No more of the typical hurt House caused. And Wilson could go find someone good, someone who would treat him like he deserved to be treated.

It's not that House didn't love him.

_He plunged the morphine into his vein, head tilting backward with anticipation and practiced control. _

Wilson was the only person House actually _did _love. And look at what a bastard he was being, hurting him like this, going against one of the only things Wilson asked of him.

But the larger portion of House could care less. Fuck Wilson, he didn't understand the pain. He could say he does, that _he truly does, _but House knows Wilson would have to actually feel it to understand it. To be House to understand it, and who the hell wants to have House's life? Hell, a part of House himself didn't want his life

The rest of the world couldn't stand House. And it hurt. It added on to his pain. But at the same time, he pushed everyone away. And maybe it was because they pushed him away. Or maybe it was just self-pity. Either way, there was a mutual separation between House and the rest of humanity.

But Wilson was the exception.

Wilson didn't care what he did or what he said or how much of a jerk he was.

Wilson knew about the pain.

And Wilson soothed it.

Or at least did the best he could to know about the pain and soothe him over the false delusion that he knows what House is feeling. House is okay with that though. Wilson tries, it's all he can do, and House understands that.

And when the world turned on House yet again, Wilson was there to stand up for him.

So long as Wilson lived, House would always have someone to lean on to keep himself from stumbling.

So why the hell was he going against one of the only things Wilson ever asked him?

Maybe it was his now-foggy mind speaking, but he decided it was because he was selfish.

Fuck, that's it. He's God damned selfish.

He loved Wilson. But that love had grown weak and tired, worn out by abuse and his own unworthiness. He had become immune to its comfort, paralleling his immunity to the drugs. But he couldn't take more love. Wilson gave him everything. There was nothing left to give. House couldn't ask for anymore.

But he could take more pills, more morphine.

He could always take more drugs.

House could feel the drugs gushing through every vein, every capillary, streaming up into his brain, washing out his organs, his thoughts completely over taken by false images he perceived, the drugs sloshing throughout him. He put the syringe back down in his drawer, sat hunched in his recliner; lay his head in his arms. _Just a few minutes, and back to work,_ he told himself.

In thirty seconds or so, he was out cold, exhausted from his thoughts.


	6. Ashamed?

"The door's locked." Foreman stated as House's team stood outside his office, waiting. Cameron was holding a folder which she was planning on presenting to him but no such luck.

"Should we call maintenance? Call Cuddy?" Chase asked.

"Definitely not." Cameron replied curtly.

"Yeah. He does this like once a month, and isn't he even more of a bastard when he comes out? If we called Cuddy or maintenance, interrupted him in whatever he does in there, he'll have our asses."

Cameron nodded in agreement, and Chase just shrugged, defeated.

"So…what do we do now?" Chase asked.

"…..Wait?" Foreman suggested.

Cameron shook her head. "No. I have a better idea."

Foreman and Chase stared at her, waiting for her to share.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Cuddy and Wilson had fried their brains. Turns out, thinking about what they could do to help House, thinking of something he might actually _agree_ with, was harder than they thought. Wilson was nervous. He had no idea why. He felt almost as if he were betraying House…he felt guilty. Cuddy felt like she could cry. She hid it well though.

Their brainstorming ritual was cut short by the shrill beep of Wilson's pager.

'_H locked his office' _

Wilson's blood went cold, his heart stopped beating. Four little words, 16 little letters killed him inside.

Wilson apologized to Cuddy, lied about having an emergency with a patient, told her they would continue this another time, and flew out the door. Worry was a bitch, there was no reason she needed to get involved in what was probably nothing. _Hopefully _nothing.

He stopped in front of House's office by his team before he even realized his legs were moving.

He sucked in a few more deep breathes and finally composed himself.

"What's wrong?" he asked in the general direction of the team.

Foreman was the first to respond. "He locked himself in his office, and he won't open the door. We though maybe…" he trailed off.

"Maybe you could get him out of there? We have a potential case." Chase finished, Foreman nodded. Cameron just stood next to the boys, clutching the folder.

After a few minutes of knocking on the door and calling House's name, inspiration struck Wilson. He told House's team to keep on knocking and calling and sped to his office.

He nodded politely to the nurse stationed near his door and bolted into his office, and out to the adjoining balcony, his lab coat flapping behind him.

Just as he suspected, the door leading from the balcony to House's office slowly creaked open.

House's silhouette was hunched over in front of his desk, and Wilson didn't know what to think. Naturally, the worst situations flashed through his mind and he could have sworn his heart stopped beating.

He rushed over and just as his warm hand touched House's shoulder he stirred a bit and Wilson thought it was okay to breathe again.

He shook him slightly and whispered his name. One of House's bloodshot, blue eyes cracked open and settled on Wilson's face.

A low grumble erupted deep from this throat. "What the fuck do you want Wilson? I'm sleeping…" he groaned.

"House…you got to work, come on, your teams outside. They found a case..."

House slowly sat up. He was tired, he wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, couldn't they fucking see that?

Wilson's breath caught in his throat. "House…" he said, barely above a whisper. "You're bleeding…"

House looked down to where Wilson's eyes were currently set. Sure enough, tiny crimson splotches seeped through his sleeve. House had no idea why, but he felt a mix of both angry and ashamed. A sharp pain shot through his stomach (humiliation?) and something began to sting behind his eyes, threatening to come out from beneath (potential tears?) He pushed his chair back, sat up with a grunt, and stood, staring intensely at Wilson. He was ashamed, he had to go. Away from the people, away from curious eyes.

Something erupted from his throat, it sounded almost like a growl. He stalked past Wilson in one angry huff, and thrust the door open with unnecessary force. He continued his angry march out of his office, nearly knocking Chase over in the process, and continued, away from everyone, all of the shit he didn't need right now. He was faintly aware of the people calling his name behind him and the slight sting on his arm as he made his way down to the one place where they won't pity him.

He made his way down the corridor and into the elevator.

Down to the lobby.

Down to the place where all of the idiots were, where his genius, the only thing worth something to him, was wasted from the only thing he had, the only thing he cared about, his job.

Down to the place where he could get away from everyone.

Down to the fucking _clinic._


	7. Gotta Get Away

_Harsh words & violent blows  
Hidden secrets nobody knows  
Eyes are open, hands are fisted  
Deep inside I'm warped & twisted  
So many tricks & so many lies  
Too many whens & too many whys  
Nobody's special, nobody's gifted  
I'm just me, warped & twisted  
Sleeping awake & choking on a dream  
Listening loudly to a silent scream  
Call my mind, the number's unlisted  
Lost in someone so warped & twisted  
On my knees, alive but dead  
Look at the invisible blood I've bled  
I'm not gone, my mind has drifted  
Don't expect much, I'm warped & twisted  
Burnt out, wasted, empty, & hollow  
Today's just yesterday's tomorrow  
The sun died out, the ashes sifted  
I'm still here, warped & twisted_

_ --Unknown._

Shorter chapter, but enjoy anyway.

* * *

House sat in exam room one staring into nothingness. It's how he thought. He would stare at one spot like it held all of the answers in the world, everything he ever needed to know. He always had that strange way of thinking. And thoughts always came to him at the weirdest and most unexpected times. 

People have seen him just turn and walk away in the middle of a sentence because he finally remembered or realized something that had been pestering him.

Today wasn't one of those days where thoughts just came to him. He tried to dig deeper, to find out what to do, but _one little thought_ kept buzzing around his mind like a fucking gnat.

'_I have to get away.'_

Damn it.

_That's what he was going to do. _

He was going to leave. Cuddy would kill him. Cuddy would literally slaughter him. He could deal with that later though. Even _that _would be better than facing Wilson or his team. And he knew he couldn't stay down in the clinic, hiding like a coward _forever. _That would never work. Someone would come to their senses and find him sooner or later. Them and their fucking pity. They couldn't just stay away? Just go away? He looked down at his blood stained sleeve and shook his head, sighing heavily.

He was going to leave. He had to, because no one had enough common sense to know he didn't want _anyone _to talk to him.

He stood and peeked out of the window, holding the blinds to the side.

At first he didn't see her, but a blur of pink suddenly walked past the nurse's help desk about twenty feet ahead. Cuddy. She was heading in the direction of the elevator.

Soon enough, he saw her face disappear behind the closing elevator doors and he bolted out of the exam room and towards the front doors of PPTH. He didn't have anything important back in his office. Just his iPod, but that could stay there for the night. He had the key to his bike, that's all he needed.

He limped faster than ever and just when he stepped outside he turned the corner towards the parking lot. He got to his bike, turned the ignition, and drove away, increasing his speed with each steady roar of the bike.

He had no idea _where _he was going, but he was _going. _His nails dug into the handlebars and he squeezed the sides of the bike with his legs, as if that would will it to go faster.

He cruised the streets well over the speed limit, going somewhere but nowhere. Objects passed in giant blurs and his palms felt sweaty on the handlebars.

He felt his pager vibrate against his leg.

'Fuck it.' He thought. He kept on going, and surprisingly the pager didn't go off again. He didn't care.

Street by street, second by second, minute by minute, he drove.

He had no idea how long he had been driving when he stopped at the bar but it must have been a while because it was getting darker outside. He had no idea where he was, but his leg was aching and he had to get off his bike.

He parked the bike about thirty feet from the entrance and walked through the doors of the bar.

It was different from all of the other places where he and Wilson usually went. It had a strange smell, a mixture of cedar wood and cigarette smoke, but it was oddly comforting to him. The floor was dusty and the tables looked sticky at first glance. It wasn't really crowded, but _full._

He grabbed a stool at the counter and signaled for the bartender. He ordered a scotch and took in his surroundings.

There were large, bulky men in leather jackets playing pool like in those really clichéd movies. He would call them the Bulks. He decided to avoid them.

There were a few men in crinkled suits who probably came here after a long day at work to find some desperate women. House snorted into his newly-arrived scotch glass. He noted that the bathroom was at the other end of the counter. He would need that later.

He took out his Vicodin and popped two and closed his eyes blissfully as the scotch and drugs worked in unison. Slowed his mind down, but his leg was killing him. He hated it. Hated it all, everything and everyone. He was hollow. He snarled as he took another swig from the glass.

He looked down to the other end of the counter to where a man, just about his size, was looking at him like he just felt up his wife. It was scaring him a bit, and House looked away. He wasn't a very friendly looking man.

Why was he looking at him that way?

Every few seconds, House would look at him out of the corner of his eye and see the man still staring back at him, snarling.

This was bad. The man was still glaring at him. The bathroom behind the man never seemed farther away.

He had to pee.

* * *

Not particularly proud of this chapter, so seriously, if you liked it, boost my confidence a bit. Please? R&R. 


	8. Fight

I can't **forgive**, can't **forget**, can't **give in **I'm so lost, I'm barely here.

What went wrong I wish I could explain myself,

Because you said this was right. But words escape me.

_You _fucked up my life. It's too late

-_-My friend Ryan. _ To save me.

You're too late.

_ You're too late._

_ --unknown_

* * *

A few scotches later, a few agonizingly uncomfortable minutes later, House decided he couldn't avoid the bathroom any longer. 

That man…there was something very intimidating about a man bigger than you scowling like you shot his mother. House's palm was sweaty and it felt slick against his cane as he stood from the barstool. He failed to think about giving himself a reasonable distance to walk between himself and the row of people sitting along the counter as he drunkenly limped towards the restroom.

He kept his head bent downward as he began to limp a bit faster. He stumbled over a large foot clad in an even larger black boot. He regained his balance before he actually fell to the floor but it still hurt. The best glare he could muster was wiped from his face when he looked up to see the man towering above him.

The man snarled. House hid all of the fear from his face as he stood up straight, staring right back at him.

"Can I help you? Because I know this lovely young lady," he pointed to the woman who was obviously ignoring the man's attempts to bring her home, "won't go home with you. But that's for obvious reasons. Still, it doesn't mean that I'll go home with you either. Not my type."

The man curled his lip's back in a vicious snarl, and clenched his fists. "That your bike outside, man?" He growled.

"Oh! Sorry, my bike won't go home with you either." He replied, trying to step past him. Didn't work, he moved back in front of House and shoved him back a bit.

"You think you're better than me man? Bringin' that flashy bike all the way out here?" The man's knuckles were turning white. House poured a couple Vicodin in his mouth, chasing them around with his tongue until he swallowed all of them.

"You see, I'd answer that," House slurred, "But that would be stating the obvious, and you'd probably tell me to point out how I _am _better than you, and that would take another hour or so. And I really have to pee."

House saw the man's jaw clench and he tightened his grip on his cane.

"You ain't better than me man." The man's words came out as a low grumble, deep from his throat.

"Everybody lies…" House muttered, trying once again to step beside him towards the bathroom. The man pushed House backward again, even harder this time. He stumbled a bit, knocking into somebody else.

The second guy was fairly smaller than House, but turned around right away and drunkenly pushed House into the first instigator. As soon as he knew what was coming, he was shoved once again and this time fell against the bar's counter. His leg twisted a bit and he released a sharp hitch of breath. He stood straight and looked back at the man, who was suddenly catapulting himself towards House. He tackled him down onto the floor and hit him once before some random man who was sitting at the bar pulled him off.

House grabbed onto a stool and slowly pulled himself off. He looked at the man who was holding his attacker back.

"Let him go. He isn't finished." House growled. The man looked at him skeptically and it made House angrier. "Think you have to protect the fucking cripple?" He shouted. "Let him go. He isn't finished yet."

The man reluctantly let go of his attacker. Once released, he just stood there staring at House.

"Come on man, you gunna start a fucking fight then at least finish the job!" He shouted, pushing him backward. He didn't care. His leg was killing him from his last fall, his jaw hurt from the punch, he could feel a headache forming behind his eyes, and his ribs hurt from when he fell against the counter. His adrenaline was flowing faster and harder than it had in a long time. And he was taking advantage of this. It's the first time he actually _felt _something other than the pain in his leg. He was going to milk this for all it's worth, being able to _feel _something other than his fucking leg and the pain that shot through his chest when he heard Stacy's name, or saw something that reminded him of her.

The man shook his head and winded his fist back, eyes glowing with rage. His massive fist collided with House's jaw but he was able to stay standing, swaying a bit. He rubbed the side of his face momentarily before lifting his cane and whacking the man with all the strength he could muster into his leg. The man bent over and groaned, and launched himself yet again towards House. He ended up tackling him into the bartender, who just got close enough to try to stop the fight.

"Knock it off you guys! Knock it off!" The bartender shouted.

Fuck no. House was taking advantage of this. He pushed the bartender back and turned to punch the man again. The two threw punches back and forth until the group of colossal men House referred to as the Bulks stepped in. One half went to hold the attacker back as the other went to grab House.

They struggled in their grips, writhing and twisting and shouting obscenities.

"Let him finish!" House shouted, flailing and struggling to get away from the men holding him back. "Let him finish! Let go! He isn't finish! I don't need you're damn protection! Get away from me! Leave me alone!" He shouted.

The men let go momentarily when House started throwing punches and the other group let go.

House stood face to face with the attacker, glaring at him.

"Finish me off you fucker!" He shouted, stepping closer. "I don't think you finished."

The man's faced was flushed; he was furious. He winded his fist back once more and smashed it into House's mouth and jaw.

House fell to his knees, the thick crimson pooling from his lip, dripping onto his shirt and to the floor.

Several men bent around to help but he swatted them away. He coughed a few times and fell down the rest of the way, laughing. He was _laughing. _It was a sad laugh, a mix of a groan and an actual joyous laugh. It was slightly unnerving to the people watching.

One of the spectators noticed House's hand was trembling and stepped forward.

"Hey, I'm Sean McGivney. You alright man?" He asked.

House's right hand was desperately clutching his right thigh while his left was curled around his cane so hard his knuckle was white. He was still emitting the laugh. They weren't sure if it was a laugh exactly.

Once McGivney was sure that House wasn't going to answer, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his cell phone. He hit the number one and waited for the person whose number he just dialed to pick up. House still wasn't responding, he was just lying on the floor, eyes squeezed shut. The laughing subsided and his head was lolling back a bit.

The ringing stopped and a slightly frazzled voice answered. "James Wilson."

"Uh, I'm sorry to disturb you Mr. Wilson, but this is Sean McGivney. I'm calling from the Sand Horne Bar down in downtown Princeton…"

"Can I…help you?" Wilson asked. He had a gut feeling that something was really, really wrong.

"Do you know a-" He looked at the drivers license from the wallet in House's pocket. "Gregory House?"

Wilson's panic radar went off. "Is he okay?"

"I'm not really sure. He's kinda just lying on the floor. He's pretty beat up. He got into this bar fight with some guy who they escorted out of here. He's pretty bruised up and his lip split open. And something with his leg, he's holding his leg a lot." He reported, observing House's actions.

"Sand Horne Bar. You got the address?" Wilson asked.

McGivney told him and as soon as he finished he slammed the phone onto its receiver, grabbed his jacket and keys, and ran out the door.

As soon as Wilson was sure House wasn't dead, he was going to be in _so_ much trouble.

* * *

_I wish you guys knew how much I struggled to write this chapter. It was so hard, and I'm still not satisfied. It's driving me nuts...but if I don't post it now I might not ever get it up, so please, PLEASE, R&R._  



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